“It is not entirely too late, my dear,” Mrs. Smythe-Dunston continued, much comforted by Lady Delia’s insistence that she would not compete with her own daughter. “A local squire may require a more mature wife when your period of mourning ends.” Lady Delia thought she heard an indelicate snort from the Marquess but when she lifted an eyebrow in his direction, he was not looking at her, but at Miss Smythe-Dunston.
“Lady Delia was quite devoted to the late Earl,” Mr. Rosewood remarked. “And became rather cast down after his death. The familiarity of Washburn Court, I trust, is a great comfort to my dear ward. She will doubtless remain here at Washburn for some time to come.” Once again at her guardian’s words, Lady Delia’s elegant shoulders tensed only just perceptibly and she struggled to reply in a calm, low voice.
“Mr. Rosewood’s compliment is not exaggerated,” Lady Delia managed to say, “I loved my poor late father very dearly. But I am certain that a bit of traveling is precisely what I should require when the weather grows less oppressively hot. I am considering a visit to some more distant cousins in Derbyshire, which would involve some lovely vistas and parks.”
“My dear Lady Delia,” Mrs. Smythe-Dunston said effusively, having evidently resolved to believe that her hostess was too old to be genuine competition for her daughter, despite all evidence to the contrary, “I would positively insist that you do visit Derbyshire as I have very good friends in the area! Perhaps you know them--?” And as Mrs. Smythe-Dunston continued, Delia hoped the Marquess did not notice her surreptitious battle of wills with her guardian. She was relieved when she overheard him being reprimanded by Miss Smythe-Dunston.
“My lord, you do not attend!” she complained, “I was describing the lovely new piece I found to play on the pianoforte. I do play quite well, you know.” Daphne’s blonde curls tilted to the side. “My lord?”
“Of course you play beautifully, Miss Smythe-Dunston. It would be a privilege to hear you, should you decide to favor us with a performance. Do you play, Lady Delia?” He was addressing her and she found herself unable to stop her blush.
“I am sadly out of practice, my lord,” she replied, the blush deepening on her cheeks. Of course she had not practiced, she thought. What an idiot he would think her for stating the obvious. She had been in mourning and had no time for frivolous pursuits. Delia’s blush was not for the content of his question, but at being addressed so directly by the Marquess while she had been thinking about how beautiful his hands were as their long fingers twined lazily around the stem of his crystal goblet.
“If you cannot play, Lady Delia, I shall be a perfectly adequate musician for the both of us,” Daphne said with a toss of her head. “I am accounted quite good.” Lady Delia replied innocuously and the Marquess turned away from her.
When at last Lady Delia was able to stand and escort the ladies to the drawing room, leaving the gentlemen to their port and cigars, she breathed a sigh of relief just to be out of the eyesight of Mr. Rosewood. She found herself distracted even when she tried to make conversation with the Smythe-Dunstons with both the contemplation of her anticipated flight to London before dawn the next morning and the distressingly attractive Marquess of Durham, who was having a worrying effect upon her nerves. Very quickly, no doubt due to her guardian’s impatience, the men joined the ladies.
Miss Smythe-Dunston immediately placed herself at the pianoforte and acquitted herself as well as she had promised. Lady Delia was thankful that she would not be called upon to play, as her nerves, what with Mr. Rosewood unending gaze and the Marquess’ distracting gorgeousness, were too tense for comfort. She was alarmed at the fact that she seemed to get a strange feeling low in her belly whenever she looked at the Marquess or his black eyes fell on her lips, which she thought was rather more often than strictly necessary, particularly since it made her so short of breath.
Lady Delia excused herself as early as was conceivably polite and fled the drawing room with the excuse that she was unused to entertaining and quite overtired. Up in her bedchamber, as Amelia took her hair out of its knot and brushed it, Delia told her of the Smythe-Dunstons and the beautiful Marquess. She omitted mention of her guardian, as she could not bear to think of him anymore that night.
“My lady, I do wish I could but see them all before we depart! The Marquess is thought quite the rake, I hear from the Smythe-Dunston’s maid, Fanny. Mrs. Smythe-Dunston has hope for him for Miss Daphne.”
This information did not surprise Lady Delia, but it still produced an unpleasant feeling somewhere near the pit of her stomach. The thought of the beautiful Marquess forced to dine every day with Mrs. Smythe-Dunston while Miss Smythe-Dunston tossed her hair at her husband and talked about her performance at the pianoforte made her feel slightly ill.
“Does she have reason to hope? Has he declared himself in any way?” she found herself asking, wishing she could have prevented herself from wanting to know if the Marquess was in any way pledged.
“Oh no, my lady. Fanny says she don’t see it happening by the way that Mrs. Smythe-Dunston had to scheme to get the Marquess to take them on this trip but she says that her mistress is determined.” Amelia finished brushing and Delia turned around to look at her.
“That will be all for now, Amelia,” Delia said. “I am going to attempt a few short hours of sleep and you must, as well. It will be a very long day tomorrow, and that’s if we managed to escape Washburn Court without anyone seeing us. Did you find the small money bag I asked you about?”
“Yes, my lady. It’s next to your bed.”
“I will put our money in it and hide it. Amelia, if you change your mind, I will not fault you.”
“I won’t, my lady.”
“I will see you at half-past three. And I will not ring the bell. I could not risk another hearing it.”
“Very good, miss. I shall be here.”
The maid bobbed a brief curtsey and, sighing, Lady Delia stood and stretched in her silky white nightgown. It would be her last night in her own bed for a long time. She wished she even knew when she could return.
It was only a few minutes later that Delia heard footsteps in the corridor. She had already extinguished the lamps but had not yet to climb into her bed. After hearing the footsteps, she slipped behind her dressing screen, holding her breath. Seconds later, her guardian entered the silent room, gently easing the door closed. Rosewood looked slowly around for her in the darkness and, seeing her bed still undisturbed, assumed she was in her sitting room adjoining the bedchamber. As he walked into a room that Delia knew he would invariably find empty, she breathed deeply and took quick, silent steps to the door. She opened it with a quick movement and broke into a run down the corridor.
Delia ran and took the first turn she could, dashing into a dark room. Closing the door harder than she had hoped, she turned the key in the lock and ran softly across to the bed and hopped in, pulling the covers up to her chin. Then the bed moved. A very male voice said in the dark, “Hello.”
Chapter 6
Delia could not help it. She shrieked, unable to stop herself, but found that immediately a very large hand, exerting substantial amounts of pressure, covered her mouth.
“Oh no, my girl!” came the Marquess’ voice, harder and more threatening than his earlier, silkier, conversation. “I’ll not have you screaming to the household that I’ve ruined you, to have that sniveling Rosewood and ten extra servants in here, witnessing that ruination.” Delia’s eyes widened at his supposition and, as she did not appear to be at risk for emitting a further shriek, he released her, saying with cold calculation, “You will be quiet now, Lady Delia, or rest assured you will be a ruined woman because I will not marry you.” She looked at him with unblinking and shocked eyes and sat up in the bed.
“How dare you speak to me in this manner!” she sputtered in a furious whisper, “I hadn’t the faintest idea you were even in this room! Your presumption is fantastically misplaced,” she finished with a fierce look at him in the dark, the room
lit only by the moon. During this speech, Delia had propped herself up and scooted back, her back against the pillows of the bed as she attempted to regain a measure of dignity. Her long, loose hair tumbled back over her shoulder. The Marquess’ own eyes narrowed as he looked at her while the moonlight through the window made her skin look ghostly pale and her eyes enormous pools of violet. His eyes traveled down her slender throat and were about to indulge themselves with her décolletage when instead they fell on her silken nightdress.
“Ahhh, now I begin to see your game, my dear,” he began with more coldness in his voice than Lady Delia believed possible from the man who had seemed to her at dinner to radiate sensuous heat. “You habitually meet your lover in this empty bedchamber and were on your way again tonight to your licentious assignation only to find your usual bed already full of another man. Whom you did not expect.” Delia followed the Marquess’ eyes down her face to her throat and her hand flew up, to her neck, shocked.
“No—!“ she said, desperately.
“Am I wrong, Lady Delia? I don’t think so, though, you did play the virgin rather well—you had me completely fooled. Who is he? A footman? Young and handsome? I would have put you above that, but some ladies quite enjoy—“ Delia cut him off at that moment with a hard slap, ringing loudly across his handsome face, her own lovely features pink with fury.
“You are shockingly rude and entirely mistaken!” she hissed in a furious whisper, barely able to keep her voice in a hush. The Marquess’ eyes had widened in shock at her blow, but they were narrowed again and he smiled down at her, adjusting his mouth to a less cruel and infinitely more inviting smile.
“My dear Lady Delia,” he said, not touching her but instead focusing on caressing her with his eyes. “I can assure you I am quite the last person to judge another’s peccadillos. You merely took me by surprise.”
“You entirely mistake me, sir!” she said, less heat in her voice as the threat in his had evaporated.
“I do?” he asked, his eyes on her lips.
“And why is it, may I ask, that I find your delectable person wearing naught but a silken nightgown in my bed? I confess, I have heard that I acquit myself adequately in the bedchamber but it is not often that young ladies throw themselves into bed with me.” His finger had touched her lips as she gazed at him and before she could respond, he pressed a delicate kiss to her mouth, teasing as he lightly nipped the pillow of her bottom lip. Her surprise made her stiffen but he ran a warm, large hand down her shoulder and arm, rubbing it to calm her beating heart.
Her body seemed not to respond when it occurred to Lady Delia that it was highly improper to be kissing a man who was not her husband while wearing nothing but a silk nightgown and semi-recumbent, in his bed.
“My lord—“ Lady Delia’s whisper sounded slightly choked.
“Mmmmmm,” said Durham as he continued to caress her silk-clad body.
“I’m afraid,” she began but he cut her off again and she responded, to her horror, at this kiss with a slight moan that stole from her lips before she could keep it in. He grasped her two hands in his one and gently brought them to a position above her head, holding them there fast with his own while his other hand ran up and down her body with alarming familiarity and abandon. Lady Delia’s mind fogged but it seemed that this was the most delicious sensation she had ever experienced. If only, she thought, she knew what the Marquess was about. Surely it was not appropriate. He brought one knee up, over her belly, holding her still and she gasped with the intimacy of the position as she felt every hard plane of his body. Then his mouth softened slightly, opening to ply her lips with his tongue, teasing her. Delia had never been kissed like this and she gasped in surprise.
“It hardly seems right that you should have come into this room expecting a delightful evening only to be disappointed,” he said as he continued to kiss her. His lips moved against hers fiercely as Delia, stilled with shock, ceased to kiss him but realized to her horror, that he still believed her to have entered the room with the intention of meeting a lover. And she had responded to his caresses! He thought she had meant to meet one man, but instead of doing so, was amenable to receiving the attentions of another. She meant to immediately disabuse him of that absurd notion but she had no excuse for her entry. How could she possibly explain that her guardian, Mr. Rosewood, had forced his way into her chamber? The Marquess would never believe her.
“I wasn’t,” she whispered as he kissed her collarbone, “to meet anyone in his room!”
“Is that so? Then why are you here?” The Marquess mocked as she lay beneath his heavy, beautiful body.
“I—“She lay, immobile and horrified by her inability to explain.
“I tell you my girl, I will not marry you, so there is no question of your being ruined. And there is no other explanation for your so deliciously presenting yourself in my bedchamber.” He smiled in a self-satisfied manner in the darkness and she saw the flash of his white teeth.
With one hand still holding her own hands hostage, his other moved to her neck, gently stroking and combing her silky hair. He moved down to caress the tops of her breasts. Delia’s breath was ragged when his mouth left hers to kiss her throat; his tapered fingers tugged the thin silk ribbon closing her nightgown and in seconds he had bared her breasts. The Marquess sucked in his breath.
“You are so beautiful,” he whispered, taking a pale pink nipple into his mouth “it’s no wonder you couldn’t wait.” The fog of tears at her own humiliation was at war with her body as she responded to his exquisite caresses and compliments with a rapidity she could not control. Delia moaned before she could stop herself, her body arching toward his somehow, of its own accord. The Marquess tensed despite her molten body. “Oh, but I envy him,” he said mockingly as he resumed his assault on her body. “I envy your lover who introduced you to this. Who tapped your passion and took your creamy white body and moans for a reward.” His voice was harsh and bordered on the incoherent but Delia could hear little of it as she twisted beneath him, wishing she had the will to stop yet hating the words. If only she could get him to believe about Christopher! But it was impossible.
“There is no reason to be so cruel to me as you seem to be enjoying yourself greatly,” she gasped as he continued to place burning kisses on her flesh. He was impossibly rude but as there was quite literally no truth to his accusations, Delia dismissed his words. She wondered if she would ever get to experience these kisses again, as she took up a residence in London and withdrew entirely from society.
The Marquess’ hand cupped her full white breast and gently kissed her open, willing mouth, while pushing her onto her back on the bed once gain. Her sweet tongue tentatively touched his in shy exploration and he groaned.
“You like that, my lady? You appreciate the pleasure I could give you? I don’t really blame you for taking a lover, you know. You’re really quite beautiful and to have men slavering over you constantly must have proven to be too great a temptation. Unfortunate, of course, since ladies are to wait until they have born their husbands an heir to have affairs, but how very lucky for your first footman. Or is it your second?”
“You quite mistake the matter!” she cried, springing away from him, with difficulty. “You are a cad and a beast and I—I—“ she could not finish, but instead struggled to draw up her nightgown, which had become quite mussed during the Marquess’ kisses.
It was quite the limit. Delia’s violet eyes looked darkened to black with anger but when she opened her mouth to protest, Mason’s mouth covered hers again, demanding and punishing. She wanted to deny again that she was here to meet a footman but the Marquess seemed convinced and how could she explain? It would hardly do to claim she was fleeing from Mr. Rosewood—the Marquess would never believe her. And he was so gorgeous as he kissed her. Why must he behave like such a scoundrel? As his warm mouth moved against her own, Delia felt her body gradually ease under his hot assault. Her mouth began to move against his seemingly against her will.
The Marquess’ body responded with alarming rapidity. She wondered when she would again find herself being kissed in such an intimate manner by a man as unhappily beautiful as the Marquess.
“I think that’s enough for tonight, Lady Delia? I don’t want anyone wandering in and drawing the wrong conclusion, do I? The servants and other household members, barring only a few, are still operating on the presumption that their mistress is a virtuous maid. We wouldn’t want to disillusion them, now, would we? If your footman arrives, I’ll take great pains to throw him as quietly as possible out the window. Good night, my dear. Now get out.”
Delia leapt out of the bed, her arms struggling to pull her nightgown up over her naked breasts, her violet eyes flashing angrily.
“You are a fiend and a monster! I hope you fall off your horse and break your neck!” She picked up her nightgown and dashed out of the room.
Chapter 7
Christopher Rosewood cursed. She had hidden herself somewhere in the bedroom while he’d looked for her and had run out while he searched her sitting room. How had she known he was coming? He was furious with himself for tripping on her rug and letting her get away. He smashed his fist into his open palm and cursed again. At least he’d seen Delia run down the corridor and into the nearest bedroom. He knew the Marquess occupied that chamber but he also knew that Delia had thought it empty. What a pleasant surprise she’d find in that room, he thought, chuckling to himself. It served her right. In fact, it served him right, too. The next morning, he’d make sure that the Mrs. Smythe-Dunston knew precisely into whose bedroom Lady Delia had dashed the previous night.
Christopher smiled to himself as he thought how cleverly his plan to damage the Marquess’ carriage was. It was working out better even than he had initially planned. Now that he had met the Marquess and ensured that he was only a rich and spoiled playboy of the ton, he had only to send word to Gigi to begin.
A Lady Compromised (The Ladies) Page 3
